


Filament and Feather

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Winglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:04:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2567570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man on John's roof has wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filament and Feather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [khorazir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/gifts).



> inspired by [khorazir's beautiful art](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/101705496878/you-could-always-come-in-you-know-just-for-a).
> 
> black feathers for [aderyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn), always. ♥

Every evening he climbs the narrow stairs to the roof. Crawls across shingles. Sits alone, legs over the ledge, to watch the sunlight leave the city.

How easy, from this height, to leave with it.

*

He sits on the roof and he isn’t alone.

His companion sits on his haunches, stares warily at John, looks away when John’s gaze meets his. His wings are charcoal and rain, soot-dark brick, mist rolling over riverbank: London captured in filament and feather, streetlamps shining silver in the tips.

“Sherlock Holmes,” says his companion. He flexes sharp claws. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John seeks a punchline in fogged-glass eyes. Finds none.

“Afghanistan. Why?”

His companion—Sherlock—hums, stands, seems sure to fall but his wings spread wide, catch air, carry him safely from John’s sight.

*

He sits on the roof and Sherlock joins him each night.

 _Your name_ _,_  Sherlock asks, early on; over time adds,  _How was the date, did you know London from above’s a battlefield, how do you feel about the violin._

John’s quiet, content in the flutter of Sherlock’s chatter. Asks once, months in, “You can reach every roof in London. Why come here?”

Sherlock tilts his head. “You don’t know.”

“Nope.”

Feathers ruffle, settle. “Crows like what’s luminous.” Sherlock swallows. “You channel it, John. The light.”

John takes Sherlock’s hand. Blushes bright.


End file.
